KNUCKLEHEADs (Chapter Excerpt)

As the cold wheels screeched across the steel, I counted down the cars to the engineer. First 20, then 11, 6, 4, 3, 2, 1, never letting more than half go by without an update. It was a railroad rule to prevent the unmonitored backup movement of a train. If I told an engineer to back up 20 cars, and he hadn’t heard from me by 10, he’s supposed to be stopped at that point. The shrieking of the metal on metal was still ringing through my head. I stood there staring at this 30 ton tanker and began to space off. I asked myself what it meant to be happy. I often asked myself this question hoping one of the times I would have an answer. I wondered if there was some universal, baseline definition or if it was far too subjective to define. I had no idea but I knew I wasn’t. Maybe if I had a clear understand of what it was I could begin to work toward it. I think perhaps for the first time I wanted to.

I was rudely snapped back to reality by the engineer, “Everything okay back there, Sags,” came blaring through the radio strapped to my chest. “Yeah, we’re good,” I quickly replied. Engineers got nervous when there was too much silence.

“BMSR-243, gimme three-step protection,” I requested. Three-step protection was a type of direct safekeeping that a conductor could request from his engineer if he needed to go in between cars. Once granted, it meant the engineer could no longer touch any of the controls until the conductor dropped his three-step protection.

“Three-step applied, Sags,” and with that I began tying handbrakes on the cars.

Once tied, I dropped my three-step and had Frank check the securement of the cars to make sure the brakes would hold. There was no movement so I lifted the drawbar to release the knuckle and told Frank he could start taking it ahead when he was ready. I made my way back up to the engine and continued my paperwork. Once finished, and with no other stops to make, I peeled off the chest pack and tossed it in the corner of the cab. I kicked my feet up and stared out the window as we lumbered down the track.

“You need this light on, Frank?” I asked

“Nah, I’m good.”

“Alright.”

“You gonna take a nap?”

“I don’t think so. Just gonna stare out the window.”

“Try not to cum over there you fucking foamer.”

We both chuckled and I switched off the light, leaving the cab in almost total darkness except for a few red, blinking indicators on the engineer’s control panel.

Foamers are train-lovers who follow trains around, snapping pictures and taking videos and then posting them to their blog for other foamers to jerk-off to. They were universally hated by railroad workers. It was used as an insult between knuckleheads. If anyone showed even a tiny amount of joy doing their job they would be immediately ridiculed and labeled a foaming faggot. I hated them, and not just because they were a nuisance. Yes, they stood too close to the track as they took their pictures. Yes, they bothered us with banal questions while we were working the ground. They gave us plenty of reasons to not like them. But I hated them for something else entirely. These assholes, with their pictures and videos, provided an online database of irrefutable evidence. Evidence trainmasters would scour through in an attempt to catch us breaking safety rules. Managers were shameless when it came to finding new ways to fuck us.

I got written up once for not wearing safety glasses because of a picture a foamer took. After putting in a full twelve hours working the ground, I had barely walked into the depot when a senior trainmaster called me into his office:

“Have a seat, Sags.”

“I’m good, thanks. I don’t plan on staying long. What do you need?”

“Well I want you to look at this picture and tell me if it’s you.”

“No, that isn’t me,” I said standing behind his computer monitor.” I knew exactly what he was doing and it made me want to jump across his desk and pound his face into it, then rape him.

No, I thought to myself, rape him first and then slam his face into the desk. I wanted him conscious for the raping. Mental trauma lasts far longer than physical.

“I’m not gonna play this game. That’s you standing on the nose of that fucking engine without your glasses on. That’s a willful violation, man.”

“Then do what you’re gonna do so I can get the fuck out of here. I’m not signing shit, though.”

“That’s fine, but I need you to sign the Declined to Sign form.”

“You want me to sign a form saying I’m not going to sign a form? That’s the dumbest shit I’ve ever heard. I’m not signing that either. Or will I have to sign a form saying I refused to sign a form that says I refused to sign a form?”

“Don’t be a dick, Sags.”

“Where would it end? We could be here all night signing forms in a never-ending loop.”

“Get the fuck out of here before I write you up for insubordination.”

I gave him a Sieg Heil and walked out of his office, much happier than when I walked in.